


Shed Your Skin

by sphilia



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Bag A Legend Spoilers, Blood and Injury, Cunnilingus, Dream Sex, Face-Sitting, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, the love found between predator and predator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 07:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphilia/pseuds/sphilia
Summary: You are not alone in your dreams. Something waits for you with fangs in the dark. Tonight, it comes wearing scarlet stockings.
Relationships: Mr Veils (Fallen London)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	Shed Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> well my bag a legend alt made some progress and mr veils briefly disguising itself as jenny's reflection hexed me. have fun.

You are having a dream about waking up. You are not alone in your bed; Sinning Jenny is kneeling beside you, watching you kindly through many long veils. There are no lamps lit in your room, but warm candlelight embraces her form, and her long, long fingers creep so gently towards your neck.

You kick the bed sheets in her face, and tumble from your bed with the unceremonious grace of a hunter, skittering back until you hit the wall. Sharp gravel cuts into your palms and shrill laughter echoes in your ears - Jenny is shaking with it, shredding the sheets with her wicked, gleaming claws, and you know that beneath the veil she is grinning with sharp fangs that click and jerk impatiently for blood, just like your own do.

WHERE ARE YOU RUNNING, PLAYTHING, Jenny says, and the Vake's voice throbs in your ears like a physical pressure. YOU WANT ME.

You catch the scent of the bloodied earth of the Abyssal Depths, and for a moment your candle-dappled bedroom flickers and long-healed claw wounds throb, and the Vake settles on the edge of your bed and crosses one scarlet-stockinged leg over the other, and it knows that you are staring.

You're going to kill it, you tell it with all the dignity you can muster, And it wants to fuck? While it looks like your friend?

I ONLY BORROWED HER BLUEPRINT, it says, and lazily slides the hem of its skirts an inch higher. Your eyes follow the movement. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN THE INSIDE OF HER THIGHS.

But you have seen her in that nun regalia many times, you point out quite reasonably. The veiled creature on your bed sighs, and in a flicker of the dream, her boldly-cut garb turns all black. All but those stockings, which seem to glow more vividly red than ever. The hand that settles on her knee is missing a talon.

MY HUNTER, she beckons, COME HERE.

You crawl to it then, as if on a leash, and you are trembling when you press your feverish face to the cool fabric of its stocking, and the whisper of its veils brush against your face too, and beneath them you see nothing but pitch black. The void beckons you, and then slender claws settle in your hair and grab a painful fistful, pressing your nose against its stocking-clad leg with the strength of a monster.

You might be whining. You might be drooling like a dog at the thought of this silken fabric tormenting the space between your thighs. You're not prepared when she flings you down and straddles your face, knees pinning your arms down with the full weight of the Vake. You would have retaliated if you had been ready, obviously. You're formulating a plan to get the upper hand. Of course.

SHOW ME YOU YEARN FOR ME AS I YEARN FOR YOU.

No human pubes are this midnight black, or this soft, you're pretty sure, but the flesh of its mound is soft and yielding under your tongue. Its lips part eagerly and you taste its slick straight away - it is as ready as you are.

It barely lets you give its clit an experimental flick before it gets impatient and grinds down hard. Its fingers tighten in your hair again and you're not eating it out, it is fucking your face, using your tongue like a toy. Drool and slick run down your chin. When it slows for a moment you wrap your lips around its clit and suck, and its moan is a hunting scream bouncing off cliff walls in a piercing, echoing wall of noise, and it thrusts into your mouth like you were born to take its cunt. And maybe you were.

You don't have claws, but your hands find her knees, trace the top edges of her stockings, and your fingers dig into the soft skin just above. The sound she makes shakes the ground beneath you. With careful distraction, and sloppy kisses pressed down her slit, you worm an arm free inch by painstaking inch, and she seems barely to register what your hand caressing the inside of her thigh means before your fingers dip into her slick heat and spread those lovely lips wide.

It might be mewling - at this volume it's hard to tell. When you press inside it, it swallows you with the same need with which you swallowed it, with which you continue to lap at it with your eager tongue. Its talons, long and wicked, scrape your scalp. You scrape your teeth against its clit in response, and it comes on your face with a screech, flooding your mouth and bearing down on the fingers you're still fucking it with, and when you don't let up, but press a rough thumb to its slick-drenched clit, it comes again, voice cracking on its scream for just a fleeting instant. Its powerful thighs tremble on either side of your head.

It slides off your fingers with a wet pop, and its wetness runs in rivulets down your wrist and cools on your lips, and the scent of it is dizzying, clinging to you like a mark of ownership. You're still not allowed to see anything beneath its veils, but its talons settle on either side of your head, as long as your fingers, and you nuzzle one, lovingly smearing it with its own slick.

HUNT ME, it says, and the solid pressure of its voice is almost like an embrace. MAKE IT JUST LIKE THIS.

Its veils grow closer, and you are engulfed in darkness, and the bedroom that was only a dream melts away, and the Abyssal Depths that were another dream melt away also, and cool lips and bristling fangs press against yours. You gasp and its teeth sink into your lower lip. You taste your own blood, mingling with the sweet taste of its come.

"When I kill you," it murmurs against your lips, sweet as a promise, "I will remember you just like this. Come for me soon. I don't want to wait any longer."

You moan when countless claws pierce your limbs, the agony of rending flesh exquisite and inevitable.

"I want to watch the hope die in your eyes while you bleed out on my claws," the Vake pants, all trembling passion, and you know that you have never been desired as badly as this, that you will never be desired like this again, and this one moment will ruin you for the rest of your life. How could any intimacy compare to this? Who could you love but this monster?

You want to speak, to tell it how you, too, will treasure its death, how it will live on in your devotion and your worship, how you will always belong to it as it belongs to you, but fangs crush your throat and you swallow and swallow your blood but there is too much of it and the Vake's lips never leave yours, and her kiss consumes and gives in equal measure.

And then it leaves you, alone in the dark, with only the sluggish dripping of your blood from a thousand wounds to mark the passing of time. You might remain there an hour, a day, a hundred years before you wake, but you do, wound in blankets that still don’t feel quite real.

But the aching need between your thighs is real enough, and when you reach down to take the issue in hand, your thoughts are of bloodied teeth and of your bomb, ready to be moved to Parabola. Oh, you are both waiting so eagerly for it. Soon. Soon.

The hunt will end. When you come, you don’t know if the blood you imagine on your tongue is your foe’s or your own.


End file.
